


Furlough

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-17
Updated: 2008-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time they run into each other, it goes something like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Furlough

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Let's say this happens in an AU of season 5. Written for the lovely and talented [](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/profile)[**smilla02**](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/) 's birthday. Pie and shiny new hiking boots to [](http://marinarusalka.livejournal.com/profile)[**marinarusalka**](http://marinarusalka.livejournal.com/) for the beta and encouragement.

The barn smelled of mildew, rat-droppings, the layered years of sagging neglect. Dean pushed the last child through the half-rotted door, watched him go bewildered and scared from shadow into sunlight.

He peered through the dirty broken glass of a window, saw the kid running after the others. They tumbled in a hurried cluster down the hill towards the road, brightly colored t-shirts spotted against the brown-green of the tall grass. They'd find help; there were half a dozen fruit stands, a gas station, houses nearby.

Dean saw the shape, lanky, hunched, and bony, move beyond the sharp-edged hulk of a rusted-out tractor.

Trying not to think about the last time he'd gone up against a rawhead, he loped slow into the dim half-light of the barn, the tazer gripped lightly in his hands.

Heard the creak of old wood behind him, spun. Fuck. There was another one, crouched in a stall. Two of the sons of bitches.

He had no choice. Dean fired at the one charging him, would worry about the other one beyond the tractor in a second. The tazer connected with a sizzle, uncoiled wire quivering. There was the snap-spark of electricity, the scream of the rawhead as it fell.

Dean was already pulling out his gun -- wouldn't do as well as frying the sucker but it'd sure sting -- when someone else stepped from sunlight into shadow beside him. Distracted, Dean missed the moment when the other rawhead darted out of the stall. It was halfway to him before he got a bead on it.

Before Dean could fire, another tazer went off, caught the rawhead full in the chest. The smell of singed cloth and flesh and bone filled the already musty air. Lowering the Glock, Dean coughed, wiped his free hand across his face, feeling sweat and dust mixing.

"Nice shot," Dean said, grudgingly.

Victor grinned at him. Smug bastard. What man had dimples like that anyway?

Looking down at the fallen rawheads, Victor whistled. "Nasty looking. I've never seen one of these in the flesh."

"What are you doing here?" Dean poked at the nearest rawhead with his boot.

"A haunting," said Victor. There was a pause. "Heard you were in the area. I stopped in at the gas station down the hill for some coffee, saw the kids running out and thought probably there was something of interest." His gaze flicked from the slumped bundle of rags that had once been a rawhead to Dean. "Where's Bonnie?"

"At Bobby's." Dean detached the wires and began to gather his tazer from the first rawhead. "Sam broke his ankle. Asshole. And now he and Bobby're both neck-deep in some research thing."

He'd checked in with Sam that morning, told him it was no biggie. Just some critter. Certainly hadn't told him it was a rawhead. (No, wait, rawheads, plural). Dean'd hung up on Sam's protests _wait, Dean, maybe you should..._

"Good thing I happened by," Victor said, retrieving his own.

"You threw me off." Dean turned for the door, suddenly needing air that wasn't choked with rotted things and dust.

"I saved your ass."

"You wish."

Outside, Dean drew in breaths of clean air. He pulled out his cell and called Sam, got his voicemail. "Hunt's over, fussbudget," he said. "See you in a few days." He let the seconds tick by. "I'm _fine_ , okay? Stay off that ankle."

He opened the trunk of the Impala and put away his gear while Victor tucked his tazer away into the pouch under his arm. There was enough FBI in him that he favored shoulder holsters, was wearing one now over a blue t-shirt stained with sweat, spilled food, road grime. Victor snagged the canvas jacket folded neatly over the fence nearby, tugged it on carefully. He treated it like he'd grabbed it off a chair in an office under fluorescent lights, as if it were a polyester business jacket and not something with pockets all over it that held holy water and matches and extra rounds of ammo and the usual things hunters carried.

Now Victor had a notebook open, leaned against the top slat of the fence, and he was writing in it with a small ball-point pen. A wind kicked up the dust, cooled the sweat against Dean's neck as he slammed the trunk shut. He shoved his hands in his pockets and went over to Victor.

The lettering in the journal was small and neat. He used columns, indicating dates and times. Detailed description, no sketches. Dean noted thin healing cuts on several fingers, the way his fingernails had gone more ragged since they'd last run into each other. He watched Victor make the note: Dean Winchester, 2:17 pm, rawhead two neutralized.

Dean leaned in, chin hovering over Victor's shoulder, pulled a hand out of his pocket to point. "That should read _neutralized with awesome skill_."

"You wish."

"Hey, who's the rookie here? You were a little sloppy firing."

"I hit it right in the chest!" Victor tucked the pen away and closed the notebook. It was a thick, ordinary red leather-bound book.

Dean snorted. "Beginner's luck."

"Natural talent." Victor turned his head, breath tickling the hairs on Dean's neck.

Every time they ran into each other, it was like this, as if Victor were keeping score of the verbal battle. Somewhere in the back of that compulsively ordered notebook of his, it probably read Victor: 17, Dean: 27. Because the way Dean figured it, he was definitely ahead.

Every time they ran into each other, it was also sometimes like this: Victor turned his head another inch, his lips brushing along the line of Dean's jaw, feather-light, as if checking first, and Dean was almost used to this, almost didn't need that check. He lowered his chin, met Victor's mouth with his own. Dean slid his tongue over Victor's, hooked his arms around his chest, pressed his body up against Victor's back until he heard Victor let out soft grunt, low in his throat. And then Dean smiled against Victor's mouth. Point to Dean.

He pulled away and Victor turned to face him. "You want some coffee?"

"Not really," said Dean.

* * *

Point to Victor. The minute they had Dean's motel room door shut behind them, Victor's palm was against Dean's crotch, and Dean hissed through his teeth.

"Jesus."

"Well, not really," Victor laughed, and his tongue traced down Dean's throat, the stubble of his short-cropped beard scratching against his skin.

It was often like this: Dean with his hands tugging Victor's jacket off, unbuckling the straps of the shoulder holster, letting it fall to the rug while Victor's fingers unbuttoned Dean's jeans and slid down the zipper.

"I still..." Dean told himself to shut up, knew this would only give Victor another notch in his column, "I still like girls, you know," he said, as Victor tugged down Dean's jeans over his hips, then his underwear. His hand went around Dean's cock, his fingers stroking upward along the base and Dean caught his breath, his neck arching. "I mean, there was this one in Colorado last week..."

"Uh-huh," Victor said, knelt down and took Dean into his mouth, began working against him with lips and tongue. Fingers, there were fingers too. The bastard.

"But...uh...I like this...too."

Another point to Victor, as Dean came with a low shout. He'd just never manage to stay silent.

Damn it.

* * *

Point to Dean.

He got Victor to make that funny noise in the back of his throat, sort of a whimper, as he slid his own body down along Victor's, ran his tongue over Victor's chest, tasted the salt of sweat.

"Dude, holy water won't work on a black dog." Dean looked down at Victor spread out on the bed beneath him, his eyes halfway gone to incoherent as Dean stroked the fingers of one hand up along Victor's thigh, his other hand around his cock. "Where the fuck did you get that idea?"

"Some friend of Bobby's," Victor gasped out, as Dean stroked harder. "Might've...been -- oh shit, Dean -- a little drunk." Dean's fingers finished with his thigh and went to cradle Victor's balls instead, and Victor bit his lower lip and that was hot as all fuck. "The guy, I mean -- not me --"

Triple bonus points to Dean as Victor unraveled completely, whole body bucking beneath him. Victor threw his head back, cursed as he came hard, shuddering beneath Dean's hands.

Victor got him back, though. Several times.

In the end, the score was probably pretty even.

* * *

Every time -- and well, it wasn't like there'd been that many times they'd done this, but enough times Dean thought it was a _thing_ \-- Victor had a tendency to fall asleep, after. It wasn't all that unusual, in Dean's vast experience, but it'd been a while since Dean had fucked the same person on anything like a regular basis, had time to observe patterns. So in his mind this seemed to be a _Victor_ thing.

It'd also been a while since he'd fucked another hunter.

There were new scars, every time, and Dean found them remarkable in ways he never did on his own body. He traced them with his fingers, while Victor only stirred slightly under his touch. The man wasn't particularly ticklish. He lay half sideways, half on his stomach, sheet covering the curve of his ass, one leg bent, face gone slack until he looked years younger.

Dean touched the small scar on Victor's calf, a year old; the long, thin one beneath his ribcage from six months ago -- horn or claw of some kind was Dean's guess; the one near his collarbone, wide and pale and pre-dating any of the others. Lilith hadn't been able to resist leaving her vicious mark on him.

As she'd marked them all, in one way or another.

He never asked outright where the rest were from, although sometimes he could figure it out from the questions Victor asked him.

Dean lay back, listened to Victor's inhales and exhales in the quiet motel room, heard the rush of traffic on the highway. Watched the light change with the sunset.

He never fell asleep.

* * *

Victor, forever a government agent somewhere at the core, was all buttoned up -- clothed again, holster on, jacket on, journal tucked under his arm. He always kept it with him, never left it in his jeep. Dean went outside in his jeans and rumpled t-shirt. He didn't bother with socks, small stones sharp against his bare feet.

That jeep was too shiny and new, in Dean's opinion. The sun was gone, stark burn of the motel breezeway lights gleaming off the blue paint.

Hunters didn't drive cars like that and Dean said so.

"You mocking my vehicle, Winchester?"

"Who, me?"

"This, from the guy who _talks to his car_."

"Screw you."

"Already did." Victor grinned. "See you, Clyde." He grabbed a fistful of Dean's t-shirt, pushed him up against the breezeway pillar, and Dean wasn't sure who should get the points this time as they tasted each other, a battle of lips and tongue neither could win, or wanted to.

Then they pulled away.

"Later," said Dean.

Victor opened the driver's side door, slid in. Dean stepped onto the motel sidewalk as the jeep pulled out.

Every time they did this, Dean hoped he'd get the chance to count the scars again.

~end  



End file.
